by Maya Rodale
They both happened to glance up at the portrait hanging above the mantel. It was their late father, a beast of a man whose interests included increasing his wealth, spending his wealth, ensuring his heir would not be “a grave disappointment to the family name” and lose all the wealth. He had no time for his spare son, deemed a sissy at a young age and ignored.
Their mother, God rest her soul, has passed away while the boys were young. Frankly, she didn’t seem like the warm, maternal sort anyway. Darcy barely remembered her.
“We have Aunt Ermintrude, in Lincolnshire.”
She was also as mad as a loon, but Darcy ensured she had a roof over her head, food at her table, and a bevy of servants paid to indulge her belief that she was the Queen of England.
“You know what I mean,” Rupert said dryly.
Darcy thought back to the night before, finding his brother in the card room, deep in a game of whist.
“I am not obtuse. I know that you find yourself in need of funds for gambling debts.” Here Darcy paused, knowing that an extended silence often conveyed more than a thousand words. “Again.”
There was a moment of unease between the brothers. They both knew that Rupert’s debts had been increasing in amount and frequency. He had a generous allowance, and yet it was still not sufficient.
“I’ll see that you get the necessary funds. But Rupert, this must be the last time.”
“Are we broke?”
Darcy gave him A Look. “Do I seem like the sort that would mismanage an estate?”
“Good point.”
“No, I have some notion of teaching you responsibility and restraint at the gaming tables.”
“Of course.”
Again, Darcy became aware of the portrait. Someone had to be responsible for the estate. Someone had to uphold their good name and preside over the family. Someone had to set an example and insist upon discipline and dignity. Someone had to be more like a father when he’d like to be just a brother. But there was no point in railing against the way things were, and Darcy didn’t do things that were pointless.
“I do have one condition, though.” Here he fought a grin as the condition occurred to him. It was almost enough to make him glad for Rupert’s debts.
“Anything.”
“That you join me in calling upon the new duke.”
“Afraid to go alone?”
“I am hardly afraid of the duchess and her pack of uncivilized Americans.”
“I’ll admit it. She terrifies me.” Rupert said, grinning. But it wasn’t the duchess that Darcy feared. No, it was a different Cavendish woman that he dreaded seeing. “But,” Rupert said brightly, “I look forward to seeing Lady Bridget again.”
Today we are at home for calling hours. I am given to understand that this means we are locked in the drawing room for a long afternoon awaiting visitors. The number will somehow indicate our popularity, and thus our worth as women, particularly with regards to gentlemen suitors. I am not optimistic, having made the mistake of reading the gossip columns this morning.
I do hope Mr. Wright (1) has not read the gossip columns and (2) comes to call and (3) falls in love with me.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Darcy and Rupert were not the only ones to pay call upon the new duke. Never ones to miss a spectacle or a subject of gossip, the haute ton was out in force to welcome—or inspect—this newly discovered branch of the Cavendish family.
Their return meant the resurfacing of decades-old gossip—how the duke’s younger brother stole the prize stallion from the Durham stables and absconded to America (horse thief!). Or how he had abandoned his family and his country to marry an American woman he’d fallen in love with during the war (traitor to the crown!). And now his son was the Duke of Durham and his daughters were attempting to infiltrate high society.
“Are we really still discussing such old news?” the duchess said witheringly to her guests.
The topic of conversation shifted immediately.
Darcy meant to have a polite, perfunctory conversation with the new duke and take his leave. Instead he found himself surrounded by women, a cup of tea thrust in his hands. Then Rupert acted like . . . Rupert.
It began innocently enough.
“Lady Bridget, I wanted to inquire as to your welfare after last night.”
Darcy tensed. What the devil was Rupert up to now? The less said about their scene last night, the better.
“What happened last night?” The duchess leveled a sharp stare at Rupert.
“Yes, do tell,” one of the sisters said smugly. She received an elbow in the ribs from the other sister, the one with glasses, and a chilling glance from Lady Bridget.
“Do go on, Mr. Wright,” urged Lady Evelyn Fairfax, voicing the sentiments of at least half the people in the room. Beside her, Miss Eileen, her sister, smiled her encouragement and added, “I do hope it’s something romantic.”
A dozen of the ladies scattered about the room murmured their agreement and faced Rupert expectantly.
And then Rupert, for all he professed to be disinterested in matrimony and terrified of the duchess, launched into an outlandish tale.
“Lady Bridget and I found ourselves trapped in a crush of people trying to make their way into supper,” he lied. “The heat must have overtaxed her, and Lady Bridget swooned. I caught her in my arms, naturally.”
Here he paused to grin at his rapt but skeptical audience. Those who had been gossiping in the foyer about decades-old horse thievery or a social faux pas committed the previous evening were now glancing at Bridget and her siblings differently because one of their own, the universally beloved and constantly charming Mr. Wright, had taken a genuine interest in her.
Darcy noted that Bridget was beaming—at Rupert. But she would. Not. Look. At. Him. No, she was gazing at his brother with starry eyes and drinking up his every word. Not that he cared. Not that he cared in the slightest.
Bloody hell, he was watching her fall in love with Rupert because he was painting such a romantic tale for all of London to gossip about, when the truth was that she slipped and fell and they happened to be there.
Darcy suddenly found the drawing room far too confining.
“And then,” Rupert continued, “she gazed into my eyes and murmured, ‘I don’t think we have been introduced.’ ”
Oh for the love of God. Darcy wanted to roll his eyes. But that was the sort of behavior that had been beaten out of him a long time ago.
“That is not quite how I remember it,” she said, all flustered and flummoxed and delectably pink, “but I far prefer your version of events.”
Darcy could practically see her heart racing and hear the wedding bells chiming in her head. Her every thought and every feeling were so clear for all to see. It made him uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Terrified.
And he remembered, for a heart-stopping second, that he used to be that way.
“I hope there is no cause for alarm,” the duchess said. “Or a wedding.”
“And here I thought you were trying to marry us off,” Durham said dryly. It was the sort of thing everyone knew but no one actually said aloud, in company.
A tense moment of silence followed, and Rupert rescued them all with a laugh and a grin, saying, “But not to rakes like me.”
Lady Bridget thought that calling hours couldn’t possibly improve after Rupert’s visit, and thus they ought to send everyone along so she might go and write Rupert and Bridget in her diary.
She was already halfway in love with him, and not because he was handsome (he was, oh he was) but because he was kind and he knew just what to say, which was one of those life skills she never quite managed to acquire.
But no, the onslaught continued with the arrival of Miss Montague and Miss Mulberry, with Lady Francesca and her aunt and chaperone, Lady Wych Cross.
One recognized girls like these the world over. Their natural beauty—clear skin, pert little noses, hair that never frizzed—was enhanced by their exquisite sense of style. It didn’t hurt either that they possessed the tall, willowy figure upon which even an old bedsheet would look fashionable. They were the sort of girls who never deigned to associate with mere mortals like Bridget and her sisters.
So what the devil where they doing here?
“I was hoping to be one of the first to welcome you to London but I see everyone beat me to it,” Lady Francesca said with a smile. “Why, even my dear friend Lord Darcy is here.”
Bridget recognized her as such a close friend of Darcy’s that he would tell her that Bridget was not handsome enough to tempt him to overlook her manners.
It still stung, that.
But today her manners were very fine. For example, she hadn’t accidentally on purpose spilled her tea on him or informed him that he needn’t waste his time with the formality of a social call because she already thought he was the worst and nothing he could ever say or do would cause her to revise her opinion.
“I hope you all enjoyed the ball last night,” Lady Francesca said. “And Lady Bridget, I hope you have sufficiently recovered from your . . .” And here everyone in the room held their breaths. Would she say it aloud? “. . . excitement.”
In approximately thirty-six hours Bridget would think of the perfectly polite yet cutting retort. But all she could think to say at the moment was I do hope you have recovered from being an ass. She glanced at the duchess, who, apparently able to read her thoughts, simply shook her head no.
“What was so exciting about last night’s ball?” Miss Mulberry wondered. Lady Montague whispered in her ear, loudly, that Bridget had fallen.
“You are of course talking about the excitement of Bridget and I meeting,” Rupert cut in, saying just the right thing at the just the right moment. “My heart is still racing.”
Bridget smiled and glanced around because was anyone else noticing the romance? Her brother lifted his brow. Darcy’s expression had darkened, if such a thing was even possible.
It was a mistake to look at him, because then their gazes locked. She didn’t know why she couldn’t look away or why breathing suddenly seemed hard.
“Always such a charmer, aren’t you, Mr. Wright?” Lady Francesca said with a laugh.
“It runs in the family,” Darcy said dryly. It took a moment for everyone to realize Darcy had made a joke, and they all burst into laughter.
Who was this man? Just when Bridget thought she had him figured out as a bore, he went and surprised her. She regarded him for a moment, noting the spark in his eyes in spite of the mouth that refused to curve up into a smile.
But she did not wish to revise her opinion of him.
“Lady Amelia, I heard a rumor that you ride astride,” Lady Francesca said, baiting Bridget’s younger sister.
“I heard that, too!” Miss Mulberry exclaimed. “Is it true?”
Lady Wych Cross murmured something about not gossiping so obviously.
“Only when I can persuade a stable hand to lend me a pair of breeches,” Amelia replied with such a sickening amount of sweetness in her tone, she had to be joking. Of course she was joking. Bridget, Claire, and James knew that, but everyone else in the room gasped. Darcy even raised one brow. Oh, what he must think of Americans—think of them!—now. Not that she cared what he, in particular, thought. But Lord Darcy, dark, disapproving Darcy, was the embodiment of the aristocracy.
And they were not pretty enough to make him—and everyone else—overlook the “fact” that they did things like trip and fall or make rude comments about assignations with stable boys.
They would have to go back to America in shame and explain that even the second (or was it third?) highest ranking title in the aristocracy was not sufficient for them to be welcome in society. How mortifying.
But Bridget had forgotten about the duchess.
One should never forget about the duchess.
“Is it true that you are on your third season, Lady Francesca?” the duchess asked, in a voice that was pure innocence and elegance. “Or is it your fourth? It seems like ages since you’ve made your debut. And one would expect a wedding announcement, but it seems you’re having trouble bringing your suitor up to scratch.”
Bridget fought the urge to leap to her feet and shout, Ha! Because the duchess had made both Francesca and Darcy turn pale.
“My first season wasn’t so long ago that I have forgotten how daunting a debut can be. Which is why I thought I’d extend an invitation to your nieces. Perhaps they would like to join us for ices at Gunther’s?”
Bridget sipped her tea and Claire stifled a yawn. Under her breath, Amelia whispered, “I would love to, but I shall be busy sticking forks in my eye,” which made Bridget laugh, which made her spit out her tea, which made the duchess close her eyes and purse her lips.
“I’ll just take that as a yes,” Lady Francesca said dryly.
Chapter 4
On Tuesday we went for ices at Gunther’s.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Lady Francesca was certainly the most beautiful girl in this carriage, not that she would say that aloud to her friends. She glanced out from under her darling new bonnet to see if anyone on the street noticed her and smiled when she made eye contact with a young man, who promptly walked into a lamp pole. She might be on her third season, but she could still turn heads.
“Why did we invite the American girl to join us?” Miss Mulberry asked, confused.
Beside her in the open carriage, Lady Francesca replied, “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Keep your friends close but your enemies closer’?”
“Of course. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“She means, Mabel, that she thinks Lady Bridget might be an enemy. So we invited her to join us for ices,” Miss Montague said.
Her explanation did little to clarify things for Miss Mulberry, but she had the right of it. It all had to do with Darcy. It was one thing to see him conversing alone with Lady Bridget at the ball. Of course he only went to call because good manners dictated he should. But there was no good reason for all those smoldering glances Darcy was giving Bridget during calling hours yesterday. She seemed too taken with Rupert to notice, which Francesca would have to encourage.
Darcy was hers. They’d had an unspoken understanding for years, ever since her brother brought him home during a school holiday. She would not lose him to an American who couldn’t even walk across a ballroom without falling flat on her bottom. It was Francesca’s turn to be the darling of the season and catch the most eligible bachelor.
The obvious solution to a potential threat was to invite her to ices and to ascertain just how much of a threat she was.
“Is Lady Bridget really an enemy?” Miss Mulberry was still puzzling this out. “But Francesca, you’re so much . . .” She paused, tilting her head like a small dog as she thought about it. Finally she settled on “taller.”
Francesca gritted her teeth. “You could have gone with thinner, prettier, or richer but you went with taller?”
“My brother says men like women who have a little padding on them,” Miss Mulberry said, which didn’t help anything at all.
“No more speaking of this. We’re here.”
Bridget had quickly come to realize a few essential truths: Lady Francesca was a viper. But she was also a popular viper who wielded not a small amount of influence over the collective brain of the haute ton. If, for example, she decided that Bridget should no longer be known as the girl who fell, no one would dare speak of it again.
Or so Bridget hoped.
That was just one of the reasons Bridget had agreed to this outing. Amongst the others: she couldn’t think of a good excuse, as Claire and Amelia had done. And there would be ices
and she was starving, thanks to the reducing diet.
And there was one other reason: she wanted, very badly, to fit in. And there was no better way to accomplish this than by befriending the most popular young ladies.
Which all brought Lady Bridget here, to this moment: ensconced in the open carriage, nibbling on delicious raspberry ices, and listening to their conversation.
“Did you see what Miss Witherspoon wore last night?” Miss Montague asked.
“That hideous puce dress?” Lady Francesca shuddered. “Yes, I saw it and wished I hadn’t.”
A conversation on fashion ensued, in which they ruthlessly critiqued what every woman wore at the ball the previous evening. Lady Something’s ruffles were too ruffly. Miss What’s-Her-Name’s hairstyle did her no favors whatsoever. Another woman’s gown was an unflattering shade of white—which begged a question that Bridget didn’t dare ask aloud (shades of white, really?).
Bridget decided her best course of action was to remain silent, lest she say the wrong thing, and savor her raspberry ice and generally do her best to seem like she belonged.
Her heart leapt with joy and no small amount of relief when she saw Mr. Wright walking down the street. He was with another gentleman she didn’t recognize.
“Oh, look! It’s Mr. Wright!” Bridget exclaimed. She did get such a thrill from saying his name. It was too perfect. Oh, I met Mr. Wright the other night.
She called his name and waved him over.
“Lady Bridget! What a pleasant surprise to see you.” Their eyes met. And she saw what he didn’t dare say aloud. He was surprised to see her, here, with these young ladies. She smiled as if to say, I know!
“Mr. Wright and Mr. Croft,” Francesca said graciously. “So lovely to see you together. Again.”
“It is always a pleasure,” Rupert said stiffly. Mr. Croft just nodded.
“I don’t suppose you could tempt your brother to come join us,” Francesca said.
“I daresay only you could manage such a feat, Lady Francesca.”
“But why would you want to?” Bridget asked, pulling a face.
